


All The Days Of Her Life

by joyofthejoui



Series: The Varo'verse [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyofthejoui/pseuds/joyofthejoui
Summary: 4E 112: Evermore, High Rock: A baby girl is born to a Breton spellsword and her Thalmor lover. Young Curinwe is going to have quite a life.Chapter Nine: Expedition to Saarthal (With appearances from young Ancano and Savos Aren)(A series of moments that make up the life of the Imperial Battlemage, Curinwe Varo. Stands alone, but is a prequel to my big Skyrim fic, "The Bonds of Civility". )





	1. Jeanne

**I.**

It's never going to be a serious relationship. Jeanne Merrick is a competent spellsword, _surprisingly_ competent, she's a pleasure to have about, and she's a _very_ agreeable bedmate. That's it.

Andanyon first hired her for a job about two years ago. Someone important back in the Isles was kicking up a fuss that they "needed" a magical knick-knack that their archives indicated _might_ be lying around a dusty Breton tomb north of Alcaire. The job got handed off to Andanyon, as the closest Thalmor agent for miles. He didn't have time to research the thing fully, so he asked around for names of local treasure-hunters. He needed someone who knew the local burial culture and tomb architecture. Jeanne was the only one available.

He was at first rather doubtful of her abilities and of her common sense: agreeing to go out into the wilderness with a strange Altmer mage she’d just met. But she was actually very good with a sword and much more magically-talented than he’d expected.

 _She_ fell for him almost immediately. By the time they were out of that first tomb, she was hanging on every word he said. Always asking questions. Very clever questions, really.

He’s pretending to be a refugee from the Dominion. So, there’s no problem taking the girl as his apprentice. (Jeanne is thirty-years-old and would object to being called a girl, but Andanyon is one-hundred-and-sixty-five. All these humans seem young to him.) It’s a great boost to his cover here. Since it’s all for Thalmor business, he doesn’t have to feel guilty about leading her on. One thing leads to another, and soon he’s sleeping with her. That, he tells himself, is _very_ good for his cover.

**II.**

She isn’t the first human woman with whom he’s involved himself. He’s lived a very long life, much of it far away from the Isles. Back home, such connections would be scandalous; in the field, it’s an open secret how badly behaved the Dominion’s people are when they’re on the continent. Still, this is turning into the most intense full-time relationship he’s ever had and that _is_ a problem. 

Sometimes, in the early days of their affair, he wonders if he is bewitched. High Rock is, after all, the land of witches’ covens, and there has to be some explanation for why he’s behaving so foolishly at his age. But he was trained to stricter self-examination than that. To mercilessly cut through justifications and excuses of others, one must first know oneself. The girl is no witch or temptress. The fault is all in himself.

Getting involved with an apprentice was a mistake. She’s always around and so he’s getting too comfortable with that. She isn’t clingy, though. She’s busy with her own work and friends and she doesn’t ask for anything more than he’s giving her now.

He’s getting old and sentimental, he decides.

**III.**

If Jeanne’s Nede ancestors were half as charming as her, no wonder the Direnni fell.

In all the other lands of men, he’s grown used to grudging or amused toleration at the best of times. The Bretons act as though they _like_ you, which makes High Rock a very dangerous place psychologically for servants of the Dominion. If he gets out of this mess, he’ll pen a warning for field agents on getting too friendly with Bretons.

He’s recently let his mask slip himself; he was careless with a letter he was writing. Jeanne caught a glimpse over his shoulder and realized the truth. He is Thalmor, and she is a diversion.

She’s crushed but she has not left. Perhaps she can still be useful.

**IV.**

And then she disappears while he is away in Valenwood for a few months. Not well, of course. He’s been doing this work a long time and it’s pathetically easy to trace her to Evermore.

The moment he sees her belly, he realizes why she left without a word. She’s terrified to see him, which cuts him to the core. But he knows she isn’t wrong to fear for herself and her child. If he has the courage to confess his errors to the Divine Prosecution, he would be brought back into the fold through long penance and re-education, but those errors would need to be wiped out. His Kinship would demand it.

Naturally, he won’t do anything of the sort. What does it matter if there’s an extra pinch of mer-blood added to the mongrel Bretons, anyway? Jeanne’s already moved far away from his base of operations. She’ll give birth to their child, keep far away from Andanyon and the Thalmor, and no one in High Rock will raise an eyebrow even if the child shows some evidence of merish blood.

Jeanne’s clever and talented and will do well for herself wherever she goes. Before he departs, he gifts her something that will tide her through the next couple of years. It isn't easy to get a large sum without attracting attention from the Dominion’s book-keepers, so he pretends to have lost the sword he received from his father after the Great Anguish. Jeanne is an expert treasure-hunter. She can sell it privately for a good sum. The shame he endures for losing his father’s sword is nothing compared to the shame of the truth being made known to his family.

**V.**

He’s back home in Shimmerene a couple of months later for the naming-ceremony of his twin nieces.

His brother and sister-in-law have been nagging him to marry for decades. He’s seriously considering it, at last. He can come back home and start over, in the correct way. His heart longs for his unborn child, but here he can have a child with a more suitable partner: a child of pure Aldmer blood who will be strong and long-lived and treasured by their whole Kinship.

His favourite niece, Elenwen, is ecstatic that her uncle might be moving back home permanently. Everyone agrees that sixteen-year-old Elenwen is the strongest magical talent in the family since Andanyon himself, and her heart is set on her uncle training her. 

He's looking forward to that. 

**VI.**

He returns to Evermore, around the date his child is due. He’ll see the baby one time and properly bid Jeanne farewell. That’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned, this is a prequel to my Skyrim fic, The Bonds of Civility, though you certainly don't need to read that to follow this one. This is the backstory to a background character in that fic.
> 
> Next chapter will be titled "Babyhood": Snippets of Curinwe's early years.


	2. Babyhood

**I.**

The first moment Andanyon sees his daughter he falls in love with her. He has wondered how he’ll feel if the child is born without any sign of his paternity: not an unlikely probability. Could he sever the bond more easily then?

Because severing the bond is what he needs to do. Coming back here was a mistake.

Then this plain little wailing bundle with blotchy red skin, rounded ears, and a snub nose is placed in his arms by the midwife. Jeanne lets out a feeble little cry, “ _Please_.” (She confesses later that she’d been taken by a sudden terror that he might harm the baby after all.)

Looking into his daughter’s wrinkled little face, he already feels he could die for her.

**II.**

The baby needs a name. Jeanne, of course, has a whole list of them, all perfectly fine Breton girl names. She’s partial to _Adeline_ , it’s a family name of hers, but she thinks it might be too old-fashioned. She thinks _Isabelle_ is nice, but every other little girl in Evermore these days is an Isabelle. Maybe _Phillipa_ , Pip for short.

He doesn’t have a preference which one she picks. He is leaving and she knows that.

Then off-hand, Jeanne asks him, “If you gave her an Altmer name, what would it be?”

“Curinwe.”

He says it without thinking. It’s been on his mind since he attended his nieces’ naming ceremony in Shimmerene.

“That’s pretty,” Jeanne says. “Well, it’s got to be a Breton name . . .”

“No, her name is Curinwe. You can give her a Breton name as well, of course.”

Jeanne narrows her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

She has many perfectly valid questions, most of which he can’t answer. Is he going to stay after all? What’s going to happen when the Thalmor find out?

He assures her that they’re not going to find out. He’s not a new hand at this business.

He knows that’s a lie even while he says it. He needs to get his head sorted out. For Curinwe’s sake, at the very least.

**III.**

Babies need a lot of attention. There are manuals on this: huge volumes that lay out the proper way to deal with every aspect of a perfect Altmer child’s upbringing. None of it pertains to the chubby six-month-old human infant who has learnt to crawl, but only backwards, so that she ends up trapped under furniture every few minutes.

That, Jeanne assures him, is normal. She’ll learn to crawl forwards soon enough. As a Breton, Jeanne’s lived with children always around her. So she probably knows what she’s talking about. But they take babies for granted in High Rock. They aren’t the all-consuming interest of several generations of a Kinship. If they let them die, there’s always another.

No, that’s an uncharitable thought. He learnt a lot of stupid, bigoted things in his childhood, and it’s ridiculous how they hang around in his mind. He was taught better later. His beloved tutor had little love for humans, but Master Ceryintar insisted on intellectual honesty and a rigorous examination of reality. That meant refusing to let bigotry colour his understanding of other races. The human race was flawed enough without adding imaginary sins to their account.

Jeanne is devoted to their daughter and she’s the one doing the work of raising her. This is only the third time he’s been able to visit since Curinwe’s birth and he can not stay long when he does visit. It’s a huge amount of work, laying a false trail and slipping away to Evermore. But it’s worth it.

He’s likely biased, but she’s a delightful little thing, pretty and strong and already showing a lively intelligence. Curinwe is all human in her looks, not a hint of mer, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that. It’s safer this way, but he wishes there was something to mark her as his.

He prays now every night that she will have at least some of his magic. Xarxes knows he should be struck down for the insolence of this prayer. But Stendarr is the Apologist of Man. Let him be merciful!

**IV.**

A small face peeks out behind Jeanne’s skirt. Curinwe’s brow is furrowed and her wide brown eyes fix on him with evident confusion.

But then she speaks: “ _Ata_.”

His heart melts. He kneels down and is rewarded by the toddler letting go of her mother’s skirt and taking a few unsteady steps before throwing herself upon him. Once she is snuggled in his arms, he looks up at Jeanne who is grinning like a loon.

“Teaching her Altmeris, are you?” he asks.

“A little bit, you’ll have to teach her properly.”

Curinwe babbles away in her baby tongue, neither Altmeris nor Common, though “Ata” and “Mama” are mixed in there.

**V.**

She is two years old now. And though every little thing she does is delightful, there are standards he needs to instill in her. For instance, when he greets her, Curinwe lets out a cry of joy. She would throw herself on him, but he holds out his hand and stops her in mid-bound.

“How do you greet your father?” he asks her in Altmeris.

She seems confused for a second, but then she bows clumsily.

“Good. Come here, my daughter.” He allows her to embrace him now.

He devotes every spare moment he has – and there are all too few of them – to teaching her Altmeris and with the language, the attitudes and deportment that go with it. Jeanne, who has picked up a fair amount of Altmeris over the years, keeps up Curinwe’s language skills when he isn’t there. Not well enough, of course. He’ll have to find Curinwe a proper tutor soon, someone discreet who isn’t being watched by the Thalmor.

It's complicated work and to what end? His daughter is human; she doesn’t need all this. It’s cruel to give her a glimpse of what she can’t ever have. But she’s so bright, only two and already fluent in both her native tongues. His brother and sister-in-law would never forgive him for the comparison, but Curinwe reminds him of their daughter Elenwen at this age.

“You are taller than Mama,” Curinwe observes.

‘Did you just notice that, Curinwe?”

“No. You are always taller.”

He’s also learning more about toddler’s logic than he’s ever expected to.

**VI.**

Curinwe is always overjoyed to see him. Jeanne, on the other hand, is becoming more and more distant.

It all comes to a head shortly after their daughter’s third birthday. Curinwe tries to correct his pronunciation of a word in Altmeris, insists that he’s saying it wrong because Mama says it differently. He’s amused by her stubbornness, and after he puts her to bed, he laughingly tells Jeanne the story.

She is not amused. “I thought you said my pronunciation was good.”

“For a peasant.”

“Excuse me?” She puts her hands on her hips.

“You first learnt from commoners. Why does that surprise you? Court Altmeris is much more formal and deliberate.”

“And you want to teach our daughter to talk like a Kinlady?”

That’s exactly how he’s teaching her. His father is High Kinlord of Shimmerene, his mother was a Kinlady of Skywatch. Why wouldn’t he pass that on to his daughter?

Why _should_ he?

“I don’t know what I want for her,” he admits.

“I suppose that’s not a surprise.”

“Jeanne, speak your mind.” He’s had enough of the silence, of her meaningful looks.

“You can’t decide what you want to do. Be Curinwe’s father or an agent of the Thalmor. And you know very well you can’t be both. The time to decide was _three years ago._ My heart’s already breaking, but you’re going to break hers.”

“I – this is ridiculous,” he protests.

“Me, you, or your precious Thalmor?”

“Everything. If I’d been a bit more precise in my thoughts. If I’d read more widely. If I’d travelled Tamriel _before_ I committed myself to a cause . . . I could have been a better teacher. The Dominion could have been so much _more_ than it is.”

“Go play house with the Dominion, then.”

He is not welcome in her bed that night.

**VII.**

Yes, he’s hurt Jeanne. But he doesn’t think Curinwe’s been hurt at all. Not till he hears her playing with her doll.

Curinwe is too intent on the baby doll in her arms to notice her father.

“Shush, don’t cry, don’t cry,” she rocks the doll back and forth. “Mama loves you, Ata loves you. Don’t cry. Ata’s coming home soon, okay? Don’t cry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic stands on its own, but anyone interested in what Andanyon has been doing for the Thalmor should check out my work: [Reports of Valiitha Direnni, Blades Agent to the Thalmor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696087/chapters/41741903) where Andanyon's achievements/crimes are a major part of Valitha Direnni's reports. He's not a lukewarm Thalmor supporter, he's a true ideologue who's put his entire life's effort into building up the Third Dominion. 
> 
> And yet he stumbles his way into this situation, where he has this little daughter pulling on his heartstrings. Greatly enjoyed writing him here as being immensely bigoted while he thinks himself the paragon of fair open-mindedness.


	3. Discovery

**I.**

Tirdas is Curinwe’s favourite day of the week. Every week, she carefully counts out the days till Mama will take her to the smithy. She is not allowed to go near the forge there, but she watches from a distance or plays behind the smithy with Tristan, who is five-years-old (she is almost four). Tristan has a real knife his papa forged for him. It’s not very sharp, but if they take turns cutting they can carve through a stick in about a half-hour.

Mama works with Tristan’s papa every Tirdas. She enchants all sorts of tools and weapons and then people buy them. Sometimes, Curinwe watches her, but it’s usually magic she’s already seen. Tristan’s papa does more interesting stuff with fire and metal. He even makes swords!

“Do you have a papa?” Tristan asks her one day.

“No.” Curinwe shakes her head. “But I have an Ata.”

“What’s an Ata?”

“He’s like a papa. But he’s taller and he is a mer.”

Curinwe does not understand why Mama is so upset when Tristan asks her about Curinwe’s Ata. Or why Mama makes her promise not to talk to anyone about her Ata again. It’s just one of Mama’s rules, like washing your hands after you play outside or never saying Ata’s words outside the house.

**II.**

Sometimes, mer who look a little bit like Ata come to the smithy. Curinwe likes to watch them and listen carefully to see if they talk with Ata’s words. But she doesn’t talk to strangers – that would be a bad thing. Some strangers look nice but they are actually witches or werewolves, like the ones in Dame Yvette’s scary stories. Tristan says he met a real witch once and she almost ate him up. Curinwe isn’t sure whether to believe him.

It’s rained for days and days but today is sunny. The yard is full of mud. Tristan says they should dip sticks in the mud and use them to paint pictures on the old hen coop. That’s lots of fun. She paints a few muddy flowers, a sun, and then writes her name in the letters Ata’s been teaching her.

She jumps when a strange voice says her name, “ _Curinwe._ ”

Standing in the yard with them is a lady mer Curinwe’s never seen before. She’s tall and has golden skin, like Ata, but her hair is brown, not white like Ata’s.

The lady smiles at her. “Hello, are you Curinwe?”

Curinwe says nothing _. She_ knows not to talk to strangers, but Tristan is stupid and so he tells the lady their names. Then the lady asks about their families, and Tristan tells her all about his family.

“Curinwe’s not your sister?” the lady asks after Tristan has told her all his aunts, uncles, and cousins.

“No! Her mama is Mistress Merrick.”

Curinwe takes a step backwards. Mama is just inside; if she moves slowly, she can get away from this stranger. But the strange lady sees her moving and grabs her shoulder.

“Please, let me go!” Curinwe cries out.

The lady pulls at her hair, then she’s pinching her ear. “Stay still,” she orders. “Let me see.”

Curinwe screams instead.

Mama comes running out of the smithy, followed by Tristan’s mama and papa.

“Let go of my child!” Mama is screaming as she scoops Curinwe up in her arms. The strange lady lets go. Curinwe buries her head in Mama’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I heard your little girl’s name and I was curious to see her ears,” the lady tells Mama.

“She pinched my ear!” Curinwe sobs to her mother.

“Leave this place now!” Tristan’s papa is shouting too. “I won’t do any business with the likes of you.”

“I told you, I was curious. But they’re perfectly round. That must be a comfort to you, Mistress Merrick. I’ll be going now.”

The lady goes away and then Mama starts crying too.

**III.**

Jeanne doesn’t know who that visitor was, but she won’t take chances with her daughter’s safety. They have to leave Evermore immediately. Jeanne has already made a plan with her friends to follow in the case of an emergency, so she wipes away her tears and gets to work. Roland and Annette close down their shop, then Annette takes Curinwe, Tristan, and her baby down to the family’s root cellar. Roland accompanies Jeanne back to her lodgings. They both are wary, watching for any more threatening Altmer, but see none on the way.

Packing is easy. She can’t take much with her. If all is well, Roland can bring the rest of their belongings along later. If all is not well, they cannot be bogged down by extra baggage.

She pauses before retrieving the canvas-wrapped bundle she hid behind the loose hearthstones.

“That looks heavy,” Roland observes.

“It’s a sword,” she explains.

“You’re not bringing the one I forged for you?”

“I am. But this one is Curinwe’s inheritance. I can’t leave it behind.”

“You know we’ll take care of it for you.”

“No. It’s got to stay with her.”

Andanyon doesn’t know she still has his sword. He gave it to her to sell before Curinwe was born. It would indeed have fetched a good price on the black market and made life much easier for Jeanne. But she couldn’t bring herself to sell it. That sword is her child’s birthright and no matter how she has to scrimp and save and make sacrifices, she will not trade it away.

**IV.**

They leave Evermore without a problem. In their inn room that night, Jeanne tries to relax. That’s when Curinwe finds the golden sword.

“It’s _beautiful_.” Curinwe’s eyes are as huge as saucers.

Jeanne decides not to scold her for opening up the bundle without permission.

“It _is_ beautiful,” she tells Curinwe. “It’s a present from Ata. When you are grown, this will be your sword.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Only the hilt.” She takes her daughter’s hand and shows her how to grasp the hilt. Her hand is, of course, far too tiny to wrap fully around it.

“Why does it have a bird?” Curinwe points at the eagle wings carved into its guard.

“That’s an eagle. You know how eagles fly high in the sky?”

“Yes.”

“The gods are like eagles, they can fly up to heaven. And they want people to go to heaven too.” This was the best, ecumenical religious explanation she could come up with on the spur of the moment. If Andanyon made it back to them, he could go into the Aldmer story of the Aedra’s ascension.

“Like _Auri-El ascended to Aetherius_ ,” Curinwe recites, switching to Altmeris. “ _So that all his descendants could ascend after his example_.”

Never mind then. Andanyon’s already schooling her in Aldmer religion, is he? Jeanne doesn’t mind – all these variations on the gods seem pretty much the same to her. Auri-El, Akatosh? What’s the difference? If he’s not excluding his daughter from his religious beliefs, that’s a good thing.

“Does Ata fight monsters with his sword?” Curinwe asks.

Jeanne doesn’t want to speculate about all the things Andanyon’s done with this sword, but she can honestly tell Curinwe, yes. Her Ata used this sword to fight the Daedra during the Oblivion Crisis.

 _Varbal Alcharyai,_ _Tooth of the High Elves_ , the sword is named. It has been a treasure of the Kinship of Shimmerene as long as they’ve kept records. Andanyon says it’s fabled to have been brought to Summerset from Aldmeris, but it was probably forged early in the Merethic period. When the gates of Oblivion opened, Andanyon grabbed it from the Shimmerene armoury. Bearing that sword, he led his companions in closing three Oblivion Gates. After the Crisis ended, the High Kinlord officially gifted the sword to his younger son, to be passed down to Andanyon’s heirs in perpetuity.

The old elf lord certainly would not recognize Curinwe as Andanyon’s heir. But it is her birthright in spite of that. After Curinwe’s marvelled over the sword for a while, Jeanne wraps it up again. Curinwe promises not to touch it again without asking, but as an extra precaution, Jeanne places a small warning spell on the bundle. Then, she tucks Curinwe into bed beside her, puts out the light, and tries to sleep.

But when sleep comes, so come the dreams: Andanyon dead, Curinwe missing. She wakes in a panic many times throughout the night, then each time is relieved to find her daughter is still snuggled up to her.

**V.**

Andanyon has no warning that his world is about to shatter. He is waiting in Stros M’Kai for the ship from Sunhold to deliver his orders and letters of credit for his agents in High Rock. Instead, the first mer off the ship is his own brother, Morandur, who grabs him by the arm and hustles him off to a dark corner of a warehouse on the docks.

Morandur is saying he doesn’t believe a word of the accusations. It’s all a plot by their family’s enemies to drag their reputations through the mud. Andanyon’s heart sinks, but he asks Morandur what accusations he’s talking about.

He doesn’t say anything, just listens as his brother makes it clear that his superiors know all about his hidden family. Then, it suddenly dawns on Morandur that Andanyon has not yet denied any of it.

“What – please don’t tell me this is _true_!” Morandur wails.

“That I have a human daughter? That’s true. It’s not some plot against the Thalmor that she exists.”

“Why?” Morandur is shaking. “How could you _soil_ yourself with a human?”

Andanyon just breaks down laughing. “Why are you always so naïve? Do you think all our agents are _celibate_? Do you think the Divine Prosecution _cares_ whom we sleep with abroad?”

“They’re going to arrest you! Of course, they care!”

“Oh, they care about this particular situation, I grant you that. I took it too far. If I’d just walked away . . . but I couldn’t walk away. Not from my child.”

“How do you even know it’s your child? These Bretons are famous for sleeping around.”

An offensive question but of course his brother does not know Jeanne. Or Curinwe.

“She’s my child,” he says simply.

Morandur strikes him across his face. He bows his head, willing himself not to react. Morandur is still his elder brother, the heir of their father. He has a right to reprimand him.

“How could you be so selfish?” Morandur cries.

“Selfish? Am I gaining anything from this? I might lose my life over this.”

“You won’t lose your life! Confess your faults and ask for mercy, you _know_ we have the connections to save you.”

Morandur is right. But the prospect of doing penance and no longer serving the Thalmor is worse than death. This is his life’s work. No mer in Alinor has done more for the Dominion than he has. And besides . . .

“They’d never let Curinwe live,” he tells his brother. “So I can’t do that.”

“ _Curinwe_ ,” Morandur repeats the name in wonder. “You gave one of our names to a _human_?”

“It suits her. She’s precious. More precious than anything in my long, long life.”

There is a long silence, then Morandur speaks.

“Eranwen . . .” he begins. “What . . . did you have anything to do with Eranwen’s death?”

It’s the last question Andanyon is expecting. Eranwen was their older sister, murdered over a century ago. Her death changed Shimmerene forever. Mostly it changed it for the better, allowing Morandur to become heir and their allies in the Thalmor to gain influence. Has Morandur been pondering this all these years, wondering if this change in his fortunes was brought about by his younger brother?

“You’re accusing me of murdering our sister? Have you gone mad?” Eranwen’s death, he now reminds Morandur, was investigated by officials of Shimmerene, Alinor, and the Empire. They all concluded she was murdered by those mad terrorists: the _Beautiful._

“I don’t know you.” Morandur is weeping now. “I thought I knew my brother, but I didn’t, did I?”

Andanyon is sick to his stomach, but he maintains a composed expression. He can’t comfort his brother or fix his many mistakes. He has to get back to his daughter and make sure she is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Varbal Alcharyai, Tooth of the High Elves_ , the sword later disrespectfully named Elf-biter by Andanyon's grandson, Junius Varo. Figuring out the original name of the sword was a lot of hard work, especially since there is no word for tooth in the Aldmer language family. Syllisjehane and HappyB3 helped find the words for me. Syllis pointed out 'Alcharyai', and that I could do something with 'var' = mouth, and the final breakthrough: Varbal = mouth-stone = tooth is HappyB3's.
> 
> Eranwen's murder is covered in the first instalment of [Valiitha Direnni's reports to the Blades](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696087/chapters/41741903). The Altmer lady who tracks down Jeanne and Curinwe is Valiitha Direnni herself. 
> 
> All reviews and comments are appreciated so, so much. And questions are answered, so please ask those if you have any.


	4. Marriage/Apraxis

**I.**

It’s a long journey home.

Home, now that’s an odd thought. When did home stop being Shimmerene? Andanyon’s never lived in this tiny little cottage just north of the Hammerfell border. But the girl playing in its garden is his, so it is home.

He calls out to her and she turns with a look of pure joy on her face. But she does not run to him. Instead, she bows as he’s taught her, returning his greeting with all the formality of a court lady-in-waiting.

“Well done, my little lady. You haven’t forgotten my lessons.”

“That’s because I’m four now,” Curinwe says gravely.

Of course. He was hoping he’d make it back for her birthday, but his route home has been roundabout.

It quickly became clear that his brother would help him beg forgiveness from the Thalmor but would not lift a finger to help Curinwe. It was easy then to give Morandur the slip on the Stros M’Kai docks and take passage with smugglers to southern Hammerfell. In Hegathe, he spent his last gold paying a local mage to assist him with some of the most difficult magic he'd ever undertaken: a projection to Evermore to speak directly with Jeanne’s blacksmith associate. (He dared not contact Jeanne directly, in case his sending was traced.) Roland Duroc told him that Jeanne and Curinwe had gone into hiding a week before. He wept tears of joy to hear it.

From there, he took unlikely routes to avoid notice. He talked his way into a job protecting a caravan across the Alik’r desert and then ventured through snow-choked mountain passes until at last, he's come to the safe house where he’d promised to meet Jeanne in an emergency.

Jeanne comes running to join them. She’s been working in the garden, her skirt is tied up above her knees, and she’s covered in dirt. He embraces her anyway, unmindful for this one moment of the propriety of such a public display of affection.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d _ever_ come,” Jeanne sobs. It’s been five months since he was last with his family.

“I came as quickly as I could.”

“Please, don’t go away again, _Ata_ ,” Curinwe pulls on his sleeve.

“I won’t.” He scoops her up in his arms. She’s heavier than he remembers; soon he’ll have to cast _Feather_ on her if he wants to pick her up without straining his back. “I won’t ever leave you again.”

**II.**

Marriage is a serious endeavour, not to be entered into lightly. Many are the preparations a prudent couple should undertake before embarking on a new life together. One should not be able to just wander down to the local chapel of Mara and get married on a whim.

But that is exactly what he’s doing today.

He expresses his surprise at the speed of the process to the priestess, who looks at him as if he’s insane.

“You two have a child already. Why wait another a moment?”

She’s right. There’s no real reason to wait. He’s already committed himself to his little family. But in his heart of hearts, he worries that he is not approaching Mara’s altar with the correct disposition, that he and Jeanne can never be full and equal partners. She is not the woman he would have chosen to marry, not if she wasn’t the mother of his beloved daughter. He can sincerely say that he values and respects Jeanne more every passing day. But deep down he knows that he doesn’t see her as his equal.

He’s not proud of any of these feelings. He can’t reconcile his beliefs with his actions. But he _can_ be faithful to Jeanne. He can show her tenderness and affection. He will always protect her and Curinwe from his enemies.

Perhaps he’s looking at this the wrong way around. He should be seeking Mara’s blessings to make up what is lacking in his relationship with Jeanne, rather than questioning whether he lives up to Mara’s standards for a groom.

Curinwe is very well-behaved, watching quietly while her parents make their vows. The most interesting aspect of the ceremony for her is their new golden rings. (The priestess takes pity on their poverty and donates these cheap bands.) Once they leave the chapel, their little magpie of a girl directs all of her cunning into trying to slip the ring off her mother’s finger.

Jeanne just laughs at these attempts. “Why are you picking on me, Curinwe?” she finally asks. “Go try and steal your Ata’s ring.”

“Ata won’t let me,” Curinwe explains.

“No, I would not. Leave your Mama’s ring alone, Curinwe.”

Curinwe immediately complies.

**III.**

Andanyon fiddles with the plain golden band on his left hand. It feels strange, but not unpleasant. That sums up his marriage. To see Jeanne’s face flush when he introduces her as “my wife”, that’s unexpectedly sweet.

The last few months have been difficult for both of them. Jeanne’s reached the end of her meagre savings and he has nothing left from his previous life. He could easily find work with his abilities, but it’d take him away from his family. This rural backwater has few opportunities for either of them.

In the end, he decides to swallow his pride and go East. His old acquaintance is Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. Deneth will certainly crow to see him begging for consideration. The thought of associating with all those Dunmer and Empire-loving mages makes him ill. But they’ll know his worth.

And they’ll be safe in Winterhold. There’s plenty of room in the college for his wife and child. It’s the last place on Nirn the Thalmor can get to.

Jeanne is not enthused by the prospect of moving to Skyrim’s chilliest hold. But she admits the plan makes sense and gets to work packing.

**IV.**

In the process of packing, he discovers his old sword under the bed. Here it is, the heirloom of his house, wrapped in cloth and set with a loud ringing spell of warning. Both Curinwe and Jeanne come running at the chimes.

Jeanne starts laughing when she sees him with the sword. “Oh, gods, _that_. I set that spell in case Curinwe snuck into it again.”

“Why is this here?” he asks Jeanne. He gave her the sword to sell. If it’s still here . . .

“You told me it was given to your heirs forever. I couldn’t – it’s going to be Curinwe’s one day, right?”

“But how did you-“

“I’ve done _everything_. Well, not everything,” she quickly amends. “But let me see, I’ve copied spellbooks, written letters for illiterate peasants, told fortunes, took in laundry, taught the blade, done enchanting work – you know about that one, Roland and Annette paid me so much more than my work was worth. It’s been tough, every moment of it, but that sword is the heirloom of your line.”

He loves her, more than he can ever say.

After that, he takes Curinwe upon his knee and lets her hold on to _Varbal Alcharyai_ while he tells her the story of the sword, in words as simple as he can make them.

**V.**

Elenwen stands quietly in the shadows of her family’s hall, waiting for the horrid ritual to begin. The Ascendants are nearly an hour late, which Mother takes as a calculated insult to the Kinship. Father, of course, insists that she’s imagining things. Elenwen is fairly certain that Mother is right. Elenwen’s heard a lot about her family since she began her studies last year in Lillandril. People are always happy to see the Shimmerene Kinship “taken down a peg.” Jealousy is such an ugly thing.

Elenwen is determined to give the rest of Alinor more reasons to be jealous of her Kinship. She, her siblings, and their children will repair all the damage Uncle Andanyon has done to their reputation. They’re all here today; even her little twin sisters are keeping still under the supervision of their nanny.

The worst of this ritual is that the old High Kinlord, Elenwen’s grandfather, has to come out of his seclusion to witness his younger son’s disgrace. Her father offers her grandfather his arm, but the old mer stubbornly refuses it. He tries to stand at attention, but all can see that he is trembling like a leaf.

It’s a blessing that Elenwen’s grandmother died before she could see this.

The Ascendants, at last, arrive, accompanied by a Justiciar who is observing for the Thalmor. The curate’s attendant takes charge of the calian from Elenwen’s grandfather, then brings it to the curate for judgment. The judgment is a foregone conclusion, but Elenwen’s breath catches as the curate holds up the perfect opalescent sphere.

“ _Apraxis_ ,” the curate intones and the calian smashes upon the floor of their Hall.

That is, as far as Elenwen knows, the end of the ritual. But her father now strides forward. Standing in the shards of his brother’s calian, he speaks clearly.

“Hear now my oath, my Honoured Father, my Kinship, my Ancestors. I will not rest, nor will I take up any office under the Thalmor, until I have slain this traitor to our blood and purged his soiled bloodline from Nirn.”

Elenwen can see by the reactions to this oath that _no one_ was expecting it. The curate takes a quick step backward – he’s probably fearing some sort of pollution from this vengeance oath. Her mother steps forward, cutting off her father’s declaration. The Justiciar is just _staring_.

But it’s done. After this day, her father will insist that the Kinship’s honour is stained so long as his brother and his child live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Price of Praxis](https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:The_Price_of_Praxis) is a really good story about Altmer and their calians, the sphere that Altmer receive, and which can be smashed just as in this scene to declare them *Apraxic*. Andanyon left his behind with his family where it was safe, so it was around to smash. 
> 
> It's really exciting writing some of the scenes that have been in my backstory for a long time and giving them some more context. The story of Andanyon and his family is mostly referenced in my main fic by his great-granddaughter, Cecilia Varo, who is only slowly learning what sort of person he was. It's all a bit more nuanced than she's ever heard it. People don't just change overnight.
> 
> All reviews and comments are appreciated so, so much. 
> 
> Next chapter: Winterhold before the Great Collapse.


	5. Education

**I.**

For Jeanne, this journey to Winterhold has been a never-ending misery. Long, cramped cart rides, longer walks with heavy packs, seedy inns, lumpy bedrolls in primitive camps, and then the seasickness of a voyage from Farrun to Solitude, then on to Winterhold.

Once, she would have relished the adventure, but the threat of Thalmor discovery has taken a toll on her. She’s going now to a place she never wanted to go, far away from all friends and family, and she has with her a four-year-old who is drawn to danger like a moth to a flame.

Curinwe loves every minute of this journey. She wakes early each morning to check that her father is still there, and once she’s made sure of that, the rest of her day is perfect. She has a never-ending stock of questions for her father, but if he asks her to be quiet, she’s content just to be with him.

Andanyon’s teaching Curinwe her first spell: _Light_. To her parents’ delight, Curinwe picks up the basic idea almost immediately, producing erratic bright flashes from her fingertips. Every night now, Andanyon works with Curinwe to focus herself, to shape and control the light’s intensity.

It’d be nice if Curinwe minded her mother as much as she did Andanyon. It’d be easier to keep her away from sharp objects, large animals, and deep water. But the only reason Curinwe _exists_ is that Jeanne once found him equally fascinating. Before all the resentment and hurt and worry crept in, before she had to put Curinwe’s interests first, she adored him. She’s not surprised now to see he’s an excellent teacher; he was _her_ teacher before she got pregnant.

And now? She knows much more than she did. He’s flawed and arrogant and has some absolutely atrocious ideals and morals. But he’s proven himself true to them. Lately, she’s been falling under his spell all over again.

**II.**

Even in its brief window of summer, the bustling port of Winterhold is as grim and uninviting as Andanyon remembers it. Jeanne seems similarly affected by the bleak scenery and uncouth Nords and Dunmer. Curinwe loves it immediately, but the girl loves everything new.

As expected, Arch-Mage Deneth positively gloats over Andanyon’s current situation. But he immediately agrees to offer him a position. There hasn’t been anyone equipped to handle ancient Aldmer texts since the last Reader’s insides were twisted into a fatal knot when he did not apply the correct cypher. 

Deneth reacts more coolly to Curinwe’s presence.

“The College is not really a place for a child,” he tells Andanyon. “Why don’t you rent a place in town?”

Andanyon is blunt in his answer. When the Thalmor assassins come, he wants his family behind College walls.

Perhaps he should have sent Curinwe away before saying this. She’s sitting quietly on her mother’s lap, but Jeanne tells him later that Curinwe stiffened at this point and held on tightly to her.

However, it’s Jeanne’s emotional plea, underscored by Curinwe’s presence, that finally moves Deneth to allow them in. He makes it very clear, though, that he won’t be responsible for any death, dismemberment, or magical misfortune that befalls their child. Curinwe’s eyes grow very large hearing this. He and Jeanne reassure the Arch-Mage that they will keep her from any harm.

If Curinwe is disturbed by all this, she’s back to her ordinary happy self an hour later as they inspect the drab set of rooms that will be their new home.

“It’s got stone walls,” she observes of the small room that will be her bedroom. “These are the strongest walls ever.”

“Yes. The walls keep out everything that’s bad,” Jeanne says, obviously mindful of what Curinwe heard in the Arch-Mage’s study.

“Are there bad things outside?” Curinwe asks.

“Snow and freezing rain, my darling. We’ll be warm in here. Look at this big fireplace.”

Curinwe plunges into the sooty hearth, then is surprised and upset to find herself dirty. Her mother bears her away to find a bathtub. He hopes the fuss is enough to make Curinwe forget the talk of dangers lurking outside.

**III.**

There are visitors at the College for Andanyon, both expected and unexpected. The Penitus Oculatus agent who comes to interview him is expected. Andanyon refuses to talk to him. The agent then hangs around Winterhold for a couple of weeks, looking for a chance to ambush Jeanne and guilt her into doing her duty as an Imperial citizen. Jeanne doesn’t give him the chance. The College of Winterhold exists within the Empire’s territory, but Imperial power counts for nothing inside these walls.

Very much unexpected is the Dominion envoy who arrives next, seeking a conference with Andanyon “to clarify the situation.” Young Luindil is a fine diplomat, just the right mix of friendly and reproachful. He’s not here to bring Andanyon back into the fold. It’s too late for that. He’s here to ascertain the scope of Andanyon’s defection. Is Andanyon likely to start sharing Thalmor secrets with the Empire? Or is this just a personal issue? Neither will invite the Thalmor’s mercy, but the strength of their reaction may hinge on Luindil’s observations.

Andanyon isn’t giving anything to the Empire. He’s worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to ever really betray the Dominion. He says as much to Luindil, who demurs that deceiving the Thalmor while living a double life _might_ be construed as betrayal. No offence to his praiseworthy sentiments, of course.

Luindil tells him that he’s been declared Apraxic, something he’s been prepared to hear, but still sends chills down his spine. He keeps a brave face, joking to Luindil that he shouldn’t be talking to him then. Luindil smiles at the joke, then adds that Andanyon’s brother has sworn an oath to kill him and his child.

Andanyon has no words for this. Thalmor assassins he expected, but _Morandur_? His elder brother hates bloodshed and thinks all disagreements can be settled by negotiation. How did he come to this extreme?

Luindil promises nothing but hints at much. Andanyon receives the impression that the Thalmor Council is willing to hold back if he keeps quiet. It’s a delayed sentence, not a pardon; the Thalmor does not let its enemies slip away. They will sit back for a while and let his misguided brother attempt the deed.

If that’s the deal, he’ll take it. He assures Luindil once again that he is completely loyal to the Dominion, other than in this small matter of his irregular personal life. He won’t be sharing Thalmor secrets with anyone.

That includes the Nord Blades agent who visits next and is unceremoniously shown the door by the Arch-Mage himself.

**IV.**

They’ve settled into a comfortable routine here. Andanyon is busy with his new work. Jeanne has her hands full with Curinwe, but Andanyon encourages her to restart her studies. Some of the young Apprentices are happy to watch Curinwe for a little pocket money. Jeanne, however, doesn’t like to leave her daughter alone for very long.

“Everyone’s very nice,” she explains to Andanyon. “But if I’m not with her – well, I keep remembering that day in Evermore. She was just out in the _yard_ and if that woman had wanted to hurt her then, she could have. And I’d never have known.”

Andanyon has a good idea who the mysterious Altmer woman was. Valiitha Direnni is a long-time associate of his, a Blades agent who is also sworn to the Thalmor. He has no idea where her true loyalties lie, though he has always hoped that she is truly swayed by the Dominion’s cause.

“Do you know why that woman made that fuss?” he asks Jeanne.

“What – do you know her?”

“Perhaps. She was a spy of some sort. She could have found you out without showing her hand.”

“And she didn’t because . . . ?”

“Whatever she wanted to happen to me, she _warned_ you. So you and Curinwe could get away safely.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely sure. So, whenever you worry about the dangers that lurk in the shadows, remember that there are as many or more people who will come to your aid. Even in your darkest hour, someone was watching out for you and Curinwe.”

“But there are also people who want to kill Curinwe,” she protests.

“We’re among friends here. If you can’t learn to trust again, you’ll lose your mind.”

“I _have_ learned to trust again.” Jeanne’s tone is unexpectedly vehement.

“Ah?”

She points to her wedding band. “I’ve put all my trust in you. Do you know how hard that was? After you – after I learned who you really were.”

“ _Ah_.” He hadn’t thought of it that way. If Jeanne is paranoid, he’s done his fair share to make her so.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve told me you’re on the run from the Thalmor,” she continues. When they first met, he’d been passing in Alcaire as a dissident in exile from the Dominion. “There’s a voice at the back of my mind now – what if he’s deceiving you again? What if this is all some elaborate Thalmor ruse to get into Winterhold?”

“There are much easier ways to gain access to Winterhold.”

“You don’t need to convince me. I told you. I trust you.”

“Thank you.” He leans down and kisses her forehead. “You’re probably the only person who does.”

“Me and Curinwe. We’re on your side.”

**V.**

Curinwe is making great strides in her magical education. It’s too early to determine her full potential, but Andanyon is quietly convinced that his prayers have been heard. His daughter is going to be a powerful mage. She seems, moreover, to have his affinity for Illusion magic and a focus and dedication that would be remarkable in most adults.

He keeps these observations to himself. Praise spoils a child, and boasting of one’s offspring is uncouth. Leave it to Jeanne to coo over every little thing Curinwe does. She’s teaching Curinwe her letters and numbers and daily marvels at how quickly she learns.

He comes back to their rooms one evening to find Curinwe waiting for him with a large scroll of paper in hand. Proudly, she presents the large evenly spaced letters.

“ _Curinwe_ ,” Andanyon reads out. “The shape of the letters is correct. But your brush strokes are backwards, here and here and here,” he points to places where she’s drawn the line from the wrong end. “If you draw backwards, the line will be thick in the wrong place. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Ata.”

“Trace the letters with your finger.”

She moves her fingers along the letters in her name. When she hesitates, he guides them in the right direction. When she’s satisfied she remembers the directions of the brush strokes, he tells her to write it again.

Curinwe scurries off to get more paper. He looks to Jeanne then and finds her frowning.

“She’s _four_.”

“She wants to do it properly.”

“She spent all afternoon working on that. She wrote it over and over again until there were no mistakes.”

“She made three mistakes.”

“Mara have mercy! You should be proud of her."

“I am proud of her.”

“Then let her see it.”

This surprises him. “Do you think she doesn’t see it?”

Jeanne’s frown turns to a scowl. “How can she? I can’t.”

He closes his eyes. _Patience._ His immediate impulse is to protest, to say she knows nothing of Altmer childrearing and how strong the bond is between child and parent. But when he chose his daughter, took this fiery young woman as his wife and turned his back on the Thalmor, he implicitly acknowledged that he didn’t understand everything after all. Curinwe is truly his own daughter, but she is also the child of her mother, and in the final summation, a human child. To ignore that is folly.

He opens his eyes again. Jeanne has waited for him to think it through.

“In my opinion, our daughter has been blessed with great talent, a strong will and a thirst for knowledge,” he says decisively. “Don’t think I’m not proud of her. If I am too demanding, if you think that I’ve imposed too harsh a discipline . . . well, you may be right. It’s wrong of me to expect perfection from a human child.” He sees the look on her face and quickly explains himself. “No, no, she’s not any less capable, but she will have fewer years to hone her talents. Humans grow so quickly. There is no time to fully follow the Path to Alaxon.”

“Being perfect in everything? Hah, don’t kid yourself. None of you elves are that.”

“Certainly not me,” he says lightly.

When Curinwe returns with her new brushwork, he makes sure to praise her for it.

“I fixed all the mistakes, Ata?” Curinwe asks, a bit confused at his new approach.

“You fixed the mistakes,” he confirms. “But would you like to learn how to make your letters beautiful?”

She nods vigorously.

“Because when you start making things beautiful, you never stop. Even if you’ve fixed all your mistakes, you can always make things more beautiful.” He pauses. It’s a tough concept for a little child, but he has an inkling she’ll understand.

“I want to make _everything_ beautiful,” says Curinwe.

“I believe you will, my daughter.”

Curinwe may be a human child, but she has her foot set upon the Path to Alaxon all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From [ESO Summerset](https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Olnewil) What's the Path to Alaxon
> 
> _"An Altmer concept practiced widely here in Summerset. Alaxon is the state of perfection that every High Elf strives for. The Path to Alaxon represents the approach we take to achieve that state._
> 
> and
> 
>  _"Not that you'd understand the concept, but the Path to Alaxon requires dedication and complete concentration."_ and _"Perfection requires constant vigilance."_
> 
> Widely thought to be beyond human understanding/capabilities. Rather ironically, it was a Kinlady of Shimmerene (so one of Curinwe's ancestors) who penned such an opinion in the text [A Rejection of Open Borders](https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/A_Rejection_of_Open_Borders).
> 
> _Beyond these self-evident truths, we must consider the poor lesser races as well. How cruel it will be to subject them to the rigors and requirements of our exacting culture and societal mores. They simply aren't equipped to handle the precision our customs and traditions demand._
> 
> Reviews and comments are much appreciated. All questions answered.


	6. Winterhold

**I.**

The College of Winterhold is huge. The rooms and passages and courtyards go on _forever_. But most of the time, Curinwe isn’t allowed past their back courtyard. It’s a nice place to play. There’s lots of snow out there right now, and her friends are building a beautiful ice fort with her. It has an ice slide _and_ a balcony.

But her friends are all grown-ups. They’re Apprentices, that means they’re learning magic, just like she is. So they can’t always come over to play. So she asks her Mama to help her find some other children to play with, but Mama says there are no children here.

“I saw some boys who are playing on the dock,” she corrects Mama.

“They don’t live in the College,” Mama answers.

“So we can go onto the dock and find them!”

Mama shakes her head. “Not today. It’s too cold outside the College.”

“So we can go outside when it is warm?”

“In the springtime. When your Ata takes us.”

All winter, Curinwe asks her mother if it is springtime yet.

But when spring comes, no one takes her outside to look for friends.

**II.**

Usually, Jarl Valdimar ignores the College.

As far as Jeanne understands, it’s not the magic he objects to. Magic is better accepted in Winterhold than the other holds of Skyrim. Valdimar and his thanes have a different problem. They don’t like how many Dunmer have come to live in Winterhold because of the College.

Perhaps the Nords have grounds for resentment. Every Arch-Mage of Winterhold since the Simulacrum has been a Dunmer. On the other hand, if more Nords studied magic, they’d make up more of the staff here. Jeanne isn’t very sympathetic to the locals’ complaints.

Tonight’s a happy exception to the usual arm's-length relationship between College and Hold. A young kinswoman of the Jarl, also niece of the High Queen of Skyrim, has come to Winterhold to study at the College. To mark the occasion, the other evening the Jarl hosted a feast in his Hall for the College’s teachers. In turn, the Arch-Mage has invited a few of these Nords up to a dinner party at the College.

Andanyon begged off attending the Jarl’s feast – too many strangers on unknown ground. But he and Jeanne will be at the supper tonight. Deneth’s asked Jeanne, in fact, to ply her Breton social graces and help host the gathering.

It’s the most distinguished social gathering Jeanne’s ever attended, so she takes her time preparing to go down to dinner. It’s been a long time since she really put on make-up, but some of the female Apprentices have been happy to lend her a huge range of cosmetics. Curinwe is now perched on the edge of her dresser, handing her brushes, opening pots of rouge, and generally making an excited nuisance of herself.

When Andanyon comes to dress for dinner, he’s amused by Jeanne’s work.

“How long did it take you to do your make-up?” he asks.

“About an hour. What do you think?”

“It’s lovely, but you’re married to an Illusion Master. You could have asked me for a spell.”

“Somehow I doubt you know how to accent my complexion.”

“Is that a challenge?” he asks playfully.

“You’d probably turn me _yellow_.”

“I want to be yellow too!” They both turn to take in Curinwe, who has powdered her face ghost-white, and added big blobs of rouge to her cheeks.

“Curinwe, no!” She rushes to take away the make-up.

Andanyon shakes his head at his daughter and says something in Altmeris that Jeanne doesn’t quite catch, though she hears the word “thief” in there. Curinwe’s face falls.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” says Curinwe.

“For?” her father coaches.

“For taking the pretty paints.”

“For stealing them,” says Andanyon.

“I’m sorry for stealing the paints,” Curinwe’s voice wavers. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Of course you’re not going to jail, my darling. I’ll help you wash your face,” Jeanne tells her quickly. She glares at her husband, good mood completely gone. “Let’s get some fresh water from the well. Your _Ata_ needs to dress.”

It bothers Jeanne how harsh Andanyon can be with his daughter. Her own parents were stern disciplinarians, and she still flinches at the memory of childhood beatings. But at least she understood that sort of punishment. Andanyon, in contrast, never lays a finger on Curinwe, but he can get inside Curinwe’s head with a few cold words. The punishments he exacts are _awful_ , like he’s working on breaking a prisoner’s spirit. When Curinwe kept leaving her toys scattered about, he was going to “give them away to more deserving children.” (Jeanne put her foot down there.) On questioning, it appeared that this delightful punishment had been a favourite tactic of his own great-grandmother, stripping her progeny of their most beloved toys or little treasures, and giving them to deserving servants or peasants. Furthermore, High Kinlady Erranil would do this to her fully grown descendants, not just the children.

Andanyon has a very high opinion of his great-grandmother, whom he credits for much of his early upbringing. He grieved deeply when she died about his twenty-first year. Jeanne thinks she sounds like a monster.

There’s no time to explore her grievances with her husband. They’re due in the dining hall soon. She hands Curinwe over to one of the Apprentices, then goes to finish dressing herself.

**III.**

The Nords are grumpy and, for the most part, dowdily-dressed, but at least they’re here. The young lady who is beginning her studies at the College is resplendent in Solitude fashion. She’ll trade her silks for a simple Apprentice’s robe tomorrow, but her glamour tonight is exactly what Skyrim needs, for its elite to reclaim magic as their own.

In Andanyon’s opinion, the most beautiful woman at this gathering is his own wife. That’s not a surprise, he’s always picked out only the most beautiful things to surround him. Before he learnt to see her in full as a person, he took a great deal of pride in having one of the loveliest women in Alcaire as his Apprentice. Tonight, he’s enjoying the dirty looks the Nords are shooting him when they realize he’s the husband of their charming hostess.

One of Valdimar’s thanes, Inga by name, is more daring than the rest. She says to Jeanne very loudly. “It’s good to see there are a few humans left here.”

Jeanne stiffens. Andanyon knows that the local Nords sometimes talk to her as if she shares all their prejudices. It’s awkward when they discover the truth. But this thane must know Jeanne’s position. She’s needling her.

“I hope Lady Gudrun’s example will inspire a new generation of Nord students,” Jeanne replies diplomatically.

Thane Inga nods. “If Nord students are made _welcome_ here, more of them will certainly come. I don’t blame our elf friends for coming to Skyrim, but success at Winterhold seems to rely so much on which Dunmer staff member one knows.”

Oh that’s what the woman is on about? To Oblivion with diplomacy. Andanyon decides to intervene.

“Would you like an introduction to all the influential Dunmer here?” he asks. “Then perhaps you can become a successful Winterhold scholar.”

Jeanne puts her hand on his arm. “Don’t be silly, my dear. I’m sure the good Thane has more important duties than magical studies,” she says quickly. “But if you do know any promising young students,” she returns to the Thane. “We honestly _would_ be happy to make those introductions. I do believe that there should be much more local representation at this College.”

Andanyon doesn’t believe that, but holds his tongue. If the Nords are going to sulk and stay magically illiterate, let them! They’ll be less of a threat to their neighbours that way.

“I’ll drink to that,” replies Thane Inga brightly.

There’s not much the Nords _won’t_ drink to. After toasting the Jarl, the Arch-Mage, their hostess Jeanne, Lady Gudrun and the next generation of Winterhold mages in general, the toasts lack any thematic coherence. Whatever comes randomly into the drinker’s head is worth a cheery drink. They drink to the workers on a dam project on the Yorgrim River, the local youths preparing for the coming Ice-Wraith hunt, even to someone’s new hunting dog, The Arch-Mage is, if possible, looking grayer than ever. This night is making a huge dent in his cellar. Deneth expected the Nord guests to prefer mead and ale to wine and spirits. But the guests know what is most expensive and exotic, and they’re here tonight for that. One can drink good mead at home, one Thane tipsily confides in Andanyon, but it’s not every day you can drink real vintage West Weald wine.

He’s caught off guard, though, when Thane Inga raises her glass and proposes a toast to his daughter.

“To our hostess’ daughter – what’s her name again?”

Jeanne smiles weakly. “Curinwe.”

Thane Inga nods. The room has suddenly fallen silent. Everyone hangs on Inga’s words.

“Long may she live, Beloved of her kin. Curinwe Elf-Daughter!”

“To Curinwe!” the other guests roar.

Andanyon finds himself curiously touched by these boisterous Nords’ gesture. Jeanne is blinking back tears while smiling.

It’s a perfect moment. Since there is nothing perfect in this world of exile, it cannot last. A breathless Apprentice breaks into the dining hall.

“Master Andanyon, there’s been an accident! Come!”

**IV.**

Curinwe’s screwed her eyes shut. Dileni has ordered her not to look. But she’s already seen him wrapped in flame and heard him screaming. She can see him now, in her head. It’s awful.

Dileni is calling for help. Other Apprentices come running. One of them picks her up and carries her out of the room.

“You’re all right now,” this big Nord Apprentice says, “You can open your eyes.”

Curinwe does.

“He just snuck in, when my back was turned for a second!” Dileni is explaining.

“Who was he?” another Apprentice asks.

“I don’t know! He was a Nord. He almost carried her away! If Curinwe hadn’t –“ Dileni stops. “Anyway, he dropped her. I cast Fireball. Is he dead?”

“He stopped screaming,” Curinwe speaks up. “He is probably dead.”

Dileni bursts into tears.

Then, Ata and Mama rush into the courtyard. Ata scoops her up in his arms immediately.

“Is she hurt?” Mama cries.

“I’m not hurt!” Curinwe reassures her. “Ata, there was a bad man and he tried to take me away. Me and Dileni killed him with magic.”

“No, no,” Dileni breaks out from her sobs. “Curinwe just shocked him. I was the one who killed him.”

“We helped together,” Curinwe insists.

“Good,” Ata pronounces. "You're a true warrior."

The sickness in her stomach starts to disappear. It was horrible but now it's over and Ata is proud of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no posting. I am actually almost done with the latest chapter of my big Skyrim fic so keep an eye out for that soon.
> 
> Reviews and comments are much appareciated.


	7. Gods and Nords

**I.**

Jarl Valdimar apologizes profusely. Curinwe’s deceased kidnapper was one of his attendants, a Nord named Hondulf. The man had served the Jarl for years; no one can explain why he tried to take Curinwe. The other guests deny any involvement with the kidnapping.

Jeanne doesn’t trust them. Andanyon, who is holding Curinwe tightly in his arms, listens intently to the guests but says little. At last, he tells the Arch-Mage he needs to put his daughter to bed, somewhere safe and far removed from the charred corpse now lying in their sitting room. Deneth offers his own quarters as a refuge.

In the Arch-Mage’s quarters, Jeanne can finally relax a little. There’s a huge four-poster bed into which they tuck Curinwe. She protests being put into a strange bed until her mother promises to stay with her.

Andanyon won’t stay. He and the Arch-Mage are going back to the scene of the crime. He promises Jeanne he’ll find out the truth. He has some experience in this work, he reminds her, a thin, humourless smile on his lips.

Curinwe cries out when he tries to leave. “Ata, you didn’t say prayers with me!” He comes back to sit on the side of the bed and hear her murmur her prayers in his language. Once she's finished, Curinwe curls up in her mother's arms and Andanyon takes his leave.

Curinwe is sleepy, but each time she nods off, she soon rewakes with a start. Then, she will begin telling her mother about the fight against the bad man. She doesn’t sound distressed, just _fascinated._

“It was just like stories, Mama,” Curinwe says for the fourth or fifth time. Maybe they should rethink the stories they’re telling her. “Dileni burnt him all up!” Curinwe continues. “And Ata said I’m a warrior.”

“Yes, I heard, darling. But you’re also our little girl and you don’t have to fight. We’ll look after you.”

“I looked after myself tonight!” Curinwe insists proudly.

“Dileni helped you. We’ll say thank you to her tomorrow.” Jeanne may never let Curinwe out of her sight again, but she does appreciate the Dunmer Apprentice’s quick actions.

“Can we make her meringues?” Curinwe is always pleading with her mother to make Breton sweets.

“So you can eat half of them?” There’s no way Jeanne can refuse this clever ploy.

“You and Ata can eat them too,” Curinwe offers generously.

She settles down for good after this, lulled into lasting sleep by happy thoughts of meringues. Jeanne lies beside her, unable to sleep.

Hours pass before Andanyon returns. When he enters the room, Jeanne starts in fear. “I thought you were another intruder.”

“No fear.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and lays his hand against Curinwe’s cheek. She is sound asleep.

“Well?” Jeanne asks.

“It wasn’t the Thalmor.”

“They could have hired him!”

He shakes his head. “They didn’t. Hondulf heard Curinwe was worth something to the Dominion, so he decided to kidnap her and sell her to the highest bidder. He thought the Arch-Mage or Jarl might pay to get her back.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I asked Hondulf himself.”

“But he’s dead – “ She sits bolt upright. “You _didn’t_.”

She’s had to relearn everything she thought she knew about the charming Altmer refugee she first met in Alcaire. But one thing that was absolutely genuine about that cover identity: Andanyon _hated_ necromancy. To resort to it now -

“Don’t worry your tender heart.” He reaches across Curinwe to take her hand in his. “I have _not_ departed from the ways set down by my ancestors. There has always been a place for death magic in our practice.”

“What did you do?”

“I called back the man’s soul and asked him a few questions. He gave up the answers easily.”

“And then what happened to him?”

“When I called him back, I disrupted his journey to Aetherius. That is why we hesitate to use death magic. It places the subject’s soul in danger. It’s likely his spirit is tied to that room now, fixated on the manner of his death.”

“Tied to our _sitting room_.”

“We won’t be moving back in there.”

Thank the Divines. She’s lived in houses touched by violent death before. The low rent can be very attractive. But she cannot live again in the room where her daughter saw this man burn to death. 

“Are you going to let the man haunt the place?”

He shakes his head. “It would be a just punishment, don’t you think? But no, better not to have a resentful spirit about the College. Deneth’s getting one of Arkay’s priests up here tomorrow. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll look into it myself.”

It’s so like him to casually imply he’s more expert than priests who deal with moving the dead on. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“When it comes to matters arcane, yes, I am. Is that a problem?”

“Not really. I must find arrogance attractive.”

He chuckles softly at that. Damnit. If they were alone in their own chamber, she’d be all over him right now. With Curinwe beside her, she can only _wish_.

“You’re still wearing your dinner gown,” he observes. “I grabbed you a nightgown if you want to change.”

“Thank you.” She slips out of bed and walks over to a full-length mirror in the corner of Deneth’s room. Yes, her finest gown is all wrinkled now, with a huge wet spot where Curinwe’s drooled on her. Her make-up is a smeared mess. “Can you get me a wet cloth?”

He returns with a warm wet cloth, helps her clean her face, and then unbuttons the back of her gown. In the process, her attention to issues such as necromancy completely dissipates. Curinwe’s sound asleep in here and she recalls Deneth has a large plush sofa in his study next door.

This is certainly not what the Arch-Mage was envisioning in making such a generous offer of his quarters. But after such an awful day, they deserve a little comfort.

**II.**

The two Nord children in the courtyard are visibly nervous. The red-haired boy stands proudly at attention beside Thane Inga, but the little blonde girl cowers behind a tall Nord man in full armour.

Jeanne is puzzled at their arrival. Thane Inga’s dislike for the College came through strongly at the Arch-Mage’s supper party. Yet here she is, asking directly for Jeanne.

“Good morning, Mistress Jeanne,” Inga greets her. “How is your daughter?”

“Curinwe took no harm,” says Jeanne. “She is busy with her letters right now.”

“Good. This is my son Sindri.” The man bows to Jeanne. “We’ve come by to accept your very gracious offer.”

“My offer?” Jeanne has no idea what the woman is talking about.

“If I recall it correctly, you told me to bring you any promising young Nord students I knew. Let me present my grandson, Reifnir and my grand-daughter, Birsa. If you’d teach them a little, a few hours a week, I’d be honoured.”

Jeanne doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t have to say anything, though, because there’s a sudden cry of joy from the door behind her. It seems Curinwe did _not_ stay at her desk. She has quietly followed her mother and is now overwhelmed with the sight of new playmates.

Thane Inga is grinning. So, that’s what this is about. Jeanne wouldn’t have suspected it before coming to Skyrim, but Nord generosity is a real thing. They are given to grand gestures of friendship and hospitality. A cynic – and all Bretons are cynics in part – would look for the gain in such gestures. If she teaches Inga’s grandchildren, it’ll be for their benefit, after all. But in the ensuing conversation, it becomes clear that the children’s father is not at all comfortable with bringing his children to the College. He does, however, share his mother’s warm heart. He’ll let Jeanne teach his children “a few spells and Breton cookery and flower arranging or whatever.”

**III.**

Birsa and Reifnir are very good friends. They play together for hours sometimes, either in Curinwe’s home or on really special days, in their family’s huge wooden house in the city. There are other children in that house too, so those are Curinwe’s favourite days. Yet, Mama refuses to go down to the city unless Ata or a professor goes with them.

Curinwe understands why now. There are dangerous people outside. 

Birsa and Reifnir are good friends but they don’t know a lot. They didn’t know _any_ magic when they first visited. Mama teaches them a little bit, but they still haven’t learnt more than a couple of baby spells. They don’t know anything about High Rock or Alinor or anywhere outside Skyrim. They don’t have good manners or good handwriting, they only speak one language, and they have a bunch of weird gods Curinwe first thought they were making up.

“Ata, is Talos a god?” she asks her father one night.

“No,” he says coldly, and she feels she has made a terrible mistake even asking him. “Did someone tell you he was?”

She nods. “Reifnir has a necklace that looks like an ugly axe. He said it’s an “amulet of Talos” and Talos is a god who protects the Empire.”

“Talos is a story, an _ugly_ story that certain humans tell themselves to feel better about their own sorry state. Did this Reifnir tell you what Talos Stormcrown did to be honoured as a god?”

“He said Talos fought witch armies.”

Her father laughs at this, but it is not his nice laugh. “Talos, the man not the god, was Tiber Septim, founder of the Third Empire of Man. He brought terror, death and slavery upon half of Tamriel. Witch armies? He fought against your mother’s people first, and then he made war upon all mer. His soldiers hailed him as a god because he allowed them to kill and steal as they pleased.”

Curinwe is horrified. “Why does Reifnir like him then?” 

“Because he was taught that Talos is a god. There’s something very wrong with Nords, Curinwe. The ones you’ve met, they’ve been kind to you and your mother. But they were taught badly since they were at their mothers’ breasts. They believe that a man can cheat, rob, lie, kill, and if he dies in battle, he can go to their heaven. And their idea of heaven is Lorkhan’s cursed abode.”

Curinwe assures her father that Reifnir had not mentioned Lorkhan. If he had, she would have run away from him.

“Shor,” her father replies. “They call him Shor here. He is one and the same.”

“Like ' _Shor’s bones'_?”

“Yes. They are talking of Lorkhan’s body then.”

“And they like him?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t they know he’s bad?”

“Remember your lessons. Did Lorkhan fight alone?”

Curinwe shakes her head. “ _Lorkhan made armies of the weakest souls_ ,” she recites.

“Exactly. The Nords are Lorkhan’s misguided people.”

“Oh!” This is scary. Lorkhan’s army was in the olden days. She didn’t think they were right here in Winterhold. “Let’s not let them in here again, Ata.”

Ata shakes his head. _“Misguided_ , Curinwe. That means that they do not know the truth, but they can act better than Lorkhan would want them to. The Nords can still be your friends. But you cannot trust their gods.”

**IV.**

Jeanne is angrier with him than she’s ever been. He can understand why, and to some extent, he can admit his mistake. He does not regret the doctrinal instruction he has given Curinwe. His child will walk always in Auri-El’s light. But he should have given her better instruction on how to interact with the heathen Nords.

Without such instruction, she went to play with the Nord children, then told the boy to “Shut up” when he next mentioned Talos. He refused to shut up; she cast a Silence spell on him.

In truth, Andanyon’s impressed. Neither he nor Jeanne taught her that spell. Her strength of will also warms his heart. If only she were pure-blooded, Curinwe would make a fine Justiciar.

But yes, he can understand why Jeanne is upset. These Nord brats were Curinwe’s only friends. Their father is refusing to send them up to the College anymore.

“You need to stop filling her head with your nasty, narrow ideas,” Jeanne rants.

“I hadn’t taken you for a devotee of Talos.”

“You know I’m not! He wasn’t a god back home. But he’s a god to these Nords and you just have to _deal_ with that.”

Yes, he has to deal with it. He hopes and prays that the Thalmor will stamp out the worship of Talos in time. His cult is contentious in Cyrodiil, and nearly non-existent in Hammerfell and High Rock. But even in the best scenario, Skyrim will be the last bastion of Talos worship. He is not likely to live long enough to see the Nords relinquish their faith in the Pretender.

He tries to placate Jeanne. “I’ll talk to Curinwe. I should have taught her to be more diplomatic.”

“You can do that. But that’s not enough.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What would you have me say?”

“ _Weakest souls_ ,” she spits the phrase out. He freezes. “Delightful, hearing _that_ from my own daughter. Did you tell her who those weakest souls _are_? Other than Nords?”

No, he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. He’s been waiting for the right opportunity, the right way to explain the difference between human and mer. A way that won’t shatter his little girl’s heart.

He begins to doubt there is such a way.

“Your people are not Lorkhan’s,” he reminds Jeanne. “Perhaps your Nedic ancestors were his followers, but no longer.”

“Is that Thalmor official doctrine? That Bretons are _redeemed_ children of Sithis?”

“No,” he admits. “But the Thalmor are not of one mind on the position of the . . . younger races.” The extremists would like to see all humans eliminated. He has never been one of them. But he also knows how many humans must be killed for the Dominion to secure its rule of Tamriel. Lorkhan’s brood will not bow down easily.

“What is _your_ mind on our position?” Jeanne asks.

He pauses. Not only because he’s uncomfortable with answering. He really does not know the answer. But his eventual reply is true enough. “If all humans were as amenable as you, there would be no conflict between peoples.”

“Amenable, huh. I guess that’s right. You can say this shit to my face and Dibella help me, but my heart will still go pitter-patter-THUNK next time you smile my way.”

He dares to smile.

She shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling back. “ _Please_ ,” she says. “I know you love her. Don’t mess up her mind.”

“I don’t want to. I’m trying to give her the best of what was given to me. Stendarr forgive me when I err in that.”

"It won't be Stendarr who has to forgive you," Jeanne warns him. "It'll be Curinwe."

**V.**

Curinwe doesn’t understand anything. If Talos and Shor are evil, didn’t she do the right thing? But she apologizes to Reifnir, because that’s what Mama and Ata ask her to do.

Then she broods upon the injustice of it all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Thalmor traditional use of necromancy comes from the ESO quest, "Old Wounds".
> 
> Any comments and reviews are appreciated! Questions are also answered.


	8. Growing Pains

**I.**

Thane Inga is forgiving, but she is no fool. It’s easy to see who set Curinwe against any talk of Talos. Yes, Andanyon agreed that Curinwe should apologize for silencing the thane’s grandson, but _he_ didn’t apologize. He left the work of rebuilding that relationship to Jeanne.

Inga points this out. Jeanne just sighs.

“Is this what you want for your daughter?” Inga is _very_ blunt today. “She should be proud of her people.”

“Of both her peoples,” says Jeanne quickly. 

“Of course. But I’ve heard her. It’s not just the Talos argument. She talks exactly like an elf looking down upon the whole world. Why are you allowing this?”

“I’m not! I’m trying to – she’s so little, of course, she sees things in black and white, and of course, she imitates her father – she adores him! But she’ll learn better!”

“She should be learning _now_. Before she has to learn the hard way. If your husband comes down here, I’ll tell him that to his face.”

“He won’t come,” Jeanne admits. Thane Inga purses her lips but she does not push further. She’s made her point, and it’s up to Jeanne to do something.

Inga’s grandchildren no longer come up to the College. Inga’s son and daughter-in-law have forgiven Curinwe’s transgression, but they insist Jeanne give her lessons in their own home, where they can keep an eye on the children. Jeanne can’t blame them for that, but it means the lessons happen far less frequently. She’ll only take Curinwe down to the city if a staff member can accompany her. 

Young Reifnir, however, is game to restart his studies. He tells Curinwe that he’s looking forward to learning how to Silence _her,_ and then they’ll be even. (Curinwe is taken aback and thankfully says nothing this time.) But his younger sister is more permanently traumatized by the quarrel. Birsa hangs back from Curinwe and flinches when she sees magic done. Jeanne is not surprised when Birsa, at last, begs her grandmother’s permission to stop taking lessons. Nor is she surprised that Thane Inga grants it. 

After this, they do not see Birsa or the family’s younger children on their visits to the Thane’s longhouse.

II.

“I don’t like Nords,” Curinwe announces over dinner. 

Jeanne looks immediately at her husband. There’s a small smile playing about his lips. “Why, Curinwe?” he asks.

“You don’t like Nords, Ata.”

“Oh for Mara’s sake!” Jeanne slams her cup down on the dinner table in utter exasperation. “Of course, we like Nords, Curinwe. You know all our Nord friends.”

Curinwe’s eyes widen. “ _Ata_?” she asks. Right. She has to ask him. Nothing her mother says could possibly be enough for her.

“Your mother is right,” says Andanyon. “We like anyone who is your friend.”

“They aren’t my friends anymore!” Curinwe wails. “They just want me to go away! They’re all stupid, I don’t want to go see them anymore.”

Andanyon’s air of quiet amusement has disappeared. “Show them better,” he replies. 

“I can’t show them anything!”

He shakes his head at this. “Perhaps not today. But you will win them over if you keep trying.”

“I _can’t_.” Curinwe must be incredibly upset to argue with her father. Jeanne wants to comfort her, but she is frozen watching this encounter play out, watching Andanyon confront the pain he’s caused his daughter. Because he _is_ shaken. His usual smugness is gone; he seems strangely unsure of himself as he attempts to reassure and advise Curinwe. 

Nothing works. Curinwe is too distraught. And then, Andanyon surprises Jeanne. He pulls the sobbing girl to his chest and holds her tight. “Shush, my little girl, my daughter,” he says in Altmeris. “Be at peace.” And then, very softly. “You’re stronger than you think. You won me over without even trying.”

Curinwe’s sobs turn to sniffles, and soon she falls asleep in her father’s arms. 

**III.**

News from Alinor comes slowly to Winterhold. But Andanyon makes certain that it does come. In theory, there are rules against any of the Thalmor circulars or local broadsheets leaving the Isles. In practice, you can buy these documents most anywhere in Tamriel. The College’s bursar grumbles at the expense but finally agrees to set up an ongoing subscription to a discrete smuggling service.

In the evenings, Andanyon pores over the documents, reading between the lines for what is not said. He’s written a fair number of these official texts himself in his life, so it’s easy to make the proper deductions. 

Curinwe often sits quietly beside him. When she does, he gives her more appropriate Altmer texts to read. She’s only five but she’s reading nearly everything on her own now. She’s certainly a quick learner. If he’s honest, she’s probably quicker than he was at her age, but as a human, she _has_ to be. There won’t be time later.

Tonight, she’s tackling an adventure of the legendary folk hero Captain Castatil, the Shield of Shimmerene. He found a tattered copy of this children’s book for her in the College library; it was a favourite of his childhood and now looks to become one of hers.

When she wants his attention, she straightens up in her chair and raises her hand. He always nods to show he’s noticed her, but if he is in the middle of a section, she can wait for his full attention. In truth, he would like to answer her immediately, since she is always more interesting than his texts, but this is how he teaches her patience and respect. 

This time, she shifts impatiently in her chair. Her question must be pressing. So he puts down this harvest report without finishing and gives her permission to speak.

“Ata, What does _half-blood_ mean?” Curinwe asks. 

His heart drops. “Is that word in your book?” he asks.

“Yes.” She puts the book in front of him and points to the word.

He’d forgotten this scene.

_“You killed him!” sobbed the Kinlady. “He was my one true love, and you killed him!”_

_“He would have killed you, m’lady,” Castatil told her. “He was an impostor. A jumped-up half-blood scoundrel from Balfiera.”_

_“Half-blood!” The lady fainted in horror._

The book was not, he began to realize, as appropriate for Curinwe as he’d thought. He flipped back a few pages to find the scene where the villain was dispatched. 

_“You dared befoul the bloodline of a great house!” roared Castatil._

_“Aye! And I would have got away with it if it weren’t for your cursed meddling!”_

“Ata?” Curinwe is still waiting for an answer.

Andanyon sighs. “A half-blood is a word for a person who has a human parent and a mer parent.” He begins with the facts. “Half mer blood, half human blood, does that make sense?”

Curinwe is indeed quick on the uptake. “Am I a half-blood?” There’s a note of worry in her voice, as if she is already connecting the dots between herself and the ugly conversations in the book.

“It’s not a polite word. You are all human and _all_ my daughter. Not half-anything.”

Curinwe nods. “All the blood gets mixed up inside people.”

“Yes.” He allows himself a smile. 

“But this mer,” she points to the mustachioed leering villain who is portrayed in his final fatal duel with Captain Castatil, “he is a half-blood?”

“Yes, they call him that. You should not say it. It’s not a good word.”

“He has golden skin but I don’t have golden skin.”

“I suppose his mother was Altmer. Your mother is Breton.”

“I look like mama, right?”

“Yes. Just like her.” It was true, Curinwe was a miniature of Jeanne. Everyone commented on it.

“That’s good. Mama is very pretty.” Curinwe turned her attention back to the book. From her furrowed brow, he could see she was still thinking this through. “Ata, Captain Castatil doesn’t like half-bloods?”

“He doesn’t like robbers and pirates. This bad mer was a pirate, yes?” He struggles to recall the story.

“Yes. He was pretending not to be a pirate and he was going to marry the Kinlady and steal all her jewels and kill her.” Curinwe’s reading comprehension is generally good, even if she apparently skimmed over the corruption of bloodline discussion. 

“So that’s why Castatil killed him. To save the Kinlady.”

“But he said a bad word,” she objects. “Why did he call him a bad word?”

He can explain this away, but it’ll come up again. It’ll come up again and again for the rest of her life. This is the life he’s doomed her to.

“Curinwe, my daughter. The person who wrote this book did not know you. They lived in Alinor. They probably did not know many humans at all. And they thought that humans were bad.”

“WHY?” Curinwe demands. 

“Curinwe, you’re learning your history. Humans and mer have been fighting wars against each other for thousands of years. The first -”

“We’re not fighting – “ she interrupts.

“ _Ears not lips_.”

She sits back in her chair. Tears are welling up in her dark brown eyes, but she’s listening. 

“As I was saying, humans and mer have fought each other in the past. They were not friends. I have told you how Lorkhan led his people against Auri-El and his mer. How the Nords still are proud of being Lorkhan’s people. Your mother’s people, the Bretons, are not like the Nords. The Bretons have often been friends to mer, and you – all Bretons are the children . . . the great-great-great-great grandchildren of both humans and mer.” The words he’s saying now, he doesn’t know if he believes them, but he owes them to her and Jeanne. 

“The author of this book,” he taps his index finger against the page, “thought humans were dangerous to mer.” _(And was right to think so.)_ “Do you understand what I’m saying? Summarize it for me.” She’s been practicing this skill with him.

“Some mer think all humans are bad,” Curinwe begins. “And only Nords are bad.”

 _Hah._ “No, Curinwe. You mustn’t offend our Nord neighbours again. Some Nords are ignorant, but they are not bad.” It’s another mantra he repeats for Curinwe’s peace of mind but does not really believe. Most Nords hate mer. That hasn’t changed since Ysgramor.

Curinwe seems half-way convinced, however. She is willing to concede that Thane Inga is very nice, and so are some of the Nord apprentices at the College.

This discussion of Nords has shifted her attention from the offending book. But, disconcertingly, she circles quickly back to it. “The mer who don’t like humans . . . “ she is thinking hard. “They don’t like me?”

He can’t sugarcoat this truth. “No, they do not.”

“Do they live here?”

“No. Not here.”

“Do they live far away?”

“Yes. Very far away.” 

“Can they get to here?”

“No,” he lies. 

She accepts his explanation then makes a final pronouncement, “This is a bad book.”

He agrees and chucks the book in the wastepaper basket. (Middling pulp fiction it may be, but Urag will never forgive him for this.) “I’ll tell you better stories,” he promises her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Castatil courtesy of ESO where he appears in as [equally a melodramatic book.](https://en.m.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:The_Bright_Blade_of_Captain_Castatil:_Scene_VI)
> 
> Next chapter starring a younger but just as bitter Ancano.


	9. Expedition to Saarthal

**I.**

No librarian likes to hear that a book in his keeping has been wilfully destroyed. But, in Jeanne’s opinion, Urag’s anger at her husband is disproportionate to his offence. This wasn’t a scholarly text or fine literature. It was a pulp children’s adventure novel. Urag, though, has no stake in the literary qualities of the destroyed book. He rages because it was a first edition, nearly four centuries old, and autographed by the author. He proceeds to ban Andanyon from the College Library: an untenable state of affairs for the College’s scholar of ancient Aldmer texts. 

The ensuing spat is refereed by the weary Arch-Mage, who may now regret having welcomed Andanyon to the College. After some reflection, Urag enacts a more tolerable punishment for the destruction of the book. Andanyon must go to the excavations at Saarthal and transcribe every visible inscription. He objects that the inscriptions were published in full by Sentius Floronius’ archaeological expedition; Urag insists that a fresh pair of eyes might bring new insight. 

It’ll be a few weeks of work even if everything goes well. The excavations have been inactive for decades, so Andanyon will be working by himself in the cold and dark. He’s in a foul mood setting off for Saarthal. Curinwe’s in an even worse one to see her father go. 

Jeanne, in contrast, is still curiously elated. She was, in truth, complicit in the garbaging of Captain Castatil’s half-blood-hating adventure. She found the book in her husband’s wastepaper basket and incinerated it with the rest of the household refuse. It’s a symbolic victory, Curinwe’s triumph over the Thalmor for another piece of her husband’s soul. Jeanne’s not foolish enough to believe the victory is complete; the bewildered old mer somehow still loves the Dominion. But if he loves Curinwe better, there will be more victories to come.

**II.**

Someone is watching Andanyon’s camp at Saarthal.

That someone is keeping their distance. Andanyon hasn’t seen or heard them. He knows they are there because his detection spells have caught faint traces of life. No animal would move so deliberately or shield itself so well from scrying.

It could be a Thalmor assassin, of course. But he doesn’t think so. An assassin would move fast, be in and out before he could detect their presence. He suspects his observer is somewhat less skilled: a talented mage or scout, but not the Dominion’s elite. His brother’s hireling, perhaps? Or an Imperial agent? 

Whatever the case, he’s fed up. He has work to do here at Saarthal and his stalker interferes with his ability to get proper sleep. He’s taken to sitting up all night in his camp and then napping down in the ruins. It’s uncomfortable, and at this rate of progress, he won’t be home with his family for another month.

It’s time to trap this observer and find out what they want.

**III.**

The Sea of Ghosts is calm today. So says Lady Gudrun, whose ancestors have plied these waters for thousands of years. She and the other Nord rowers should know. Yet, it’s no comfort to Jeanne, who spends the entire miserable voyage in dread of the waves overwhelming their small boat. Curinwe, on the other hand, is enjoying every minute of it, chatting to the apprentices about the boat, the ocean and the icy coast along which they are travelling.

This impromptu expedition to Saarthal is Gudrun’s idea. The young apprentice has no official power within the college, but she  _ is _ the niece of Skyrim’s High Queen. When she proposed a trip to the Saarthal ruins, the other apprentices were enthusiastic. The Arch-Mage agreed to send along Conjuration master Savos Aren to shepherd the apprentices. Gudrun then talked Jeanne into joining them. Jeanne suspects this was Gudrun’s main purpose to begin with. She’s a kind-hearted young woman, she saw how much Curinwe missed her father and she made arrangements to fix that.

Jeanne isn’t sure Andanyon will approve of them coming out here, but she trusts Aren to protect them in an emergency. She's sick of being cooped up in Winterhold and she doesn’t know when there’ll be another opportunity for her and Curinwe to explore the outside world.

They pull their boat up upon the same bleak shore where once Ysgramor and his Companions landed. It was warmer then, Gudrun remarks, before the full freezing of Atmora. Curinwe listens intently as Gudrun describes that vanished world and Tamriel’s first human city, which was built here. Despite her grand descriptions, there is nothing to see now but walls of ice beyond the gravel beach. 

“Is the city all under the ice now?” Curinwe asks.

“Some of it,” Gudrun replies, “But we’ll find some old walls, right, Master Aren?”

Savos Aren shrugs. “A few surface-level features, perhaps. There really is not much to see outside the excavations.”

Jeanne has already impressed on Curinwe that they will not be going down into the digs, so her face falls at Master Aren’s clarification. But then she remembers the essential thing: “Is Ata in the excavations?”

“We’ll meet him at his camp.” Jeanne is busy organizing her rucksack. They’ll be camping at least a night here, so she’s borrowed some winter gear from Thane Inga. 

“Do you see that smoke?” Gudrun points to a small gray plume rising from behind a snow-dusted ridge between ice-sheets. “I reckon that’s your Ata’s campfire!”

It’s a longer hike up the hill than it looks, but Gudrun’s guess is correct. As they crest the ridge, the Apprentices yell out their greetings to Andanyon who is standing by a fire, sheltered by the crumbling foundations of a stone wall. He looks up, first with clear annoyance, and then with alarm as he fixes his sight on Curinwe. 

“ _ Slek! _ ” He utters a word Jeanne’s never heard from his lips, though she has heard it used freely by Altmer sailors on shore leave. He’s certainly never sworn in front of Curinwe. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she takes Curinwe’s hand and begins down the hill to greet him. 

He is furious. She does not understand the full scope of his fury until they pass the sheltering wall. At Andanyon’s feet, sitting stiffly with his back up against the wall, is an Altmer stranger. He’s wrapped in several lumpy layers of winter clothing, with only his face and a few wisps of white hair exposed to the elements. It’s a sharp, handsome face (at least according to Altmer standards), but it’s disfigured by a fresh black eye. Curinwe gasps and clings to Jeanne’s leg. 

“To what do I owe this visit, Master Aren?” Andanyon addresses the Dunmer mage, rather than her. 

“The Arch-Mage has authorized a tour of the excavations for the Apprentices,” Aren replies. “You appear to be busy, is there anything I should know before we head down?”

“You’re not taking my daughter down there,” Andanyon hisses.

“Certainly not. She can stay with you.” 

“Bringing a  _ child _ here, whatever were you thinking?”

“If it’s not safe here, we can go back to the boat,” Jeanne interrupts. 

“It’s safer here,” Andanyon says shortly. “You and Curinwe will stay with me.” He turns back to Aren. “By the way, this is a former student of mine,” Andanyon gestures to the elf at his feet. “Paralysis spell till he learns how to behave. He was spying on me.”

Ah, that’s why he’s so still. But the stranger’s eyes can still move, and they are now fixed intently upon Curinwe. Jeanne shivers.

Aren does not appear discomfited at this introduction. Winterhold’s mages afford each other an insane amount of lee-way in their personal activities. “And the digs?” he asks.

“Nothing stirring the whole time I’ve been here. But knowing your track record, Aren, you’ll wake some ancient evil.”

Aren turns his back on them and begins walking away in the direction of the excavations. The apprentices scramble after him. They’ve been planning to set up camp at the bottom of the pit, near the door of the ruins. 

“Try to bring back  _ some _ apprentices this time!” Andanyon calls after him.

“ _What on_ _Nirn_ \- “ Jeanne begins, then falters as her attention is drawn back to the elf seated on the ground. 

“Aren cannot to trusted to protect anyone,” says Andanyon curtly. “You shouldn’t have come here. But since you have -” He finally greets Curinwe in High Altmeris. Curinwe lets go of her mother’s leg and steps forward to greet her father with a formal bow and response. 

Most adults find Curinwe’s formal Altmer manners amusing. Andanyon’s captive probably couldn’t smile if he wanted to, but Jeanne doubts that he’s amused. Curinwe, however, has taken her cue from her father’s demeanour and concluded that the paralyzed elf is no threat. 

“First of all,” she says very seriously. “We need to put up the tent we brought. It’s big for all the family. Then  _ he _ ”, she points to the elf, “can use your little tent, Ata.”

“Very kind of you,” her father replies, his lips quivering in amusement. “Do you know how to set up the tent?”

Curinwe shakes her head. “Mama is going to help me. I won’t bother you since you are busy.”

“Excellent.” Andanyon’s smile fades as he looks back up at Jeanne. “Twenty feet up from here would be a better place for a large tent.”

“We’re not going to camp down with the others?” Jeanne asks.

He shakes his head. “Never camp in the shadow of an ancient ruin. It’s a good rule for life.”

She has to smile at that. “We’ve slept in ruins before,” she reminds him. Their first days working together were spent tracking through cave tombs near Alcaire.

“Where needs must. Not here. I know you’ve set up camp hundreds of times before, but . . . If you sense anything strange, drop it and come back.”

“That’s not even out of your sight,” she points out. “Is it really so dangerous here?”

“No,” he admits. “But I’m a bit shaken. Please, Jeanne, I need you to take good care of her.”

She’d protest at his insinuation that she hasn’t been, but for their audience. Instead, she follows his instructions and takes Curinwe further into the shadow of the ice-wall to begin setting up their tent.

**IV.**

“Is your curiosity sated, now, Ancano?” Andanyon releases the spell a little, giving the younger mer use of his head again. In the distance, his wife and daughter are busy with the tent.

Ancano spits. “Blood Defiler!”

“Yes.”

“You admit your guilt?” Ancano’s shock is evident.

“Certainly. Had I never involved myself with that young woman, I would not have fallen from the Thalmor’s grace. But that’s hardly her fault. Or our daughter’s.”

“ _ There are no innocents in war _ !”

Andanyon winces. “I taught you that, didn’t I?”

“Did you ever really believe in what you taught us?” Ancano implores.

“Yes. Of course, I did. And some of it was arrogant nonsense that you’d be better off discarding if you want to be an effective servant of the Thalmor. You still want that, don’t you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because, my dear boy, it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m still loyal to the Dominion.”

“Loyal? That girl!”

“Has _nothing_ to do with my desire to never again see the races of mer bend their knees to human domination! I still grieve that our enemies still hold our ancient lands and occupy White-Gold and Adamantine against us. It enrages me to see the usurper Talos given equal honour with the Eight.”

There is a possibility his words are carrying to Jeanne’s keen ears. But she already knows he has not abandoned his belief in the Dominion. 

“You can’t say that you believe in all those things when you’re raising a child who will be our enemy.”

“I’m not raising her to be an enemy to mer.”

“What do you  _ think _ is going to happen?” Ancano asks. “You’re playing with a cute little  _ kitten _ right now, but you’re sharpening the claws of a tiger.”

That hurts. It hurts because he knows it’s true. He has his own ambitions for his daughter, to see her recognized among her people as a mage and scholar. There are great households in High Rock into which she would be welcomed for both her bloodline and abilities. The Dominion will never approve of her existence, but a Breton court will be the safest place for her.

That is what he hopes will happen. It’s far too likely Ancano is right, that he is raising a warrior who will strike back against his own people.

But it will be their fault if she does. 

“If you corner any animal, it will fight back,” he says quietly. “If the Thalmor in their wisdom cannot leave her alone, you’re right, she will become their worst enemy. It’s not what I wish for her.” He’s growing impatient with this conversation. “Who are you reporting to, may I ask?”

“Your brother.”

Andanyon chuckles. “That’s unexpected. Didn’t think you liked Morandur.”

“I wanted to find out what _ happened  _ to you. And he would pay me to go.”

“What will you tell him when you report back?”

“That you’re delusional!”

“That’s fair. But you should also tell him that I spared you for old times’ sake but I’ll kill the next person he sends to spy on me. Whoever it is.”

Jeanne has nearly got the tent up. He has better things to do than listen to Ancano’s whining. He waves his hand and Silences Ancano. He’ll have to interrogate him further, but right now, his daughter needs his attention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently sheltering-in-home bc of the Pandemic, with no job because I work in child care and all the daycares and schools are closed. Since I have good family support, this isn't too bad, just mind-numbingly boring at points and I miss the creativity of working with kids.
> 
> I hope I'll be able to write/read more in all this spare time, so please drop a hello if you've read/enjoyed it.


End file.
